


A Waking Terror With Two Echoes

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Comeplay, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Repressed Memories, Sibling Incest, Stranger!Danny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Tim doesn't tell Martin everything.After spilling as his guts about his encounter with the Circus, Tim goes home, knowing that he's in for a long night of remembering something he's tried hard to forget.
Relationships: Danny Stoker/Tim Stoker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	A Waking Terror With Two Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to spacehopper for looking this over.

Tim doesn’t tell Martin everything. Of course he doesn’t – Martin isn’t Jon, he may be reading the statements but he can’t make people tell him things that they don’t want to – but he tells him most of it. Everything that matters, anyway. Everything that he can stand to let matter. The rest isn’t important, not really. Not to what they’re attempting; not even to his resolve to stop it. He’s spent so long telling himself that it was some sort of dream – some crazy, fucked up dream – that he probably wouldn’t have managed to give it any coherence anyway. And that place has enough of him. He’s not giving it this, too. Not willingly.

After that and his little chat with Elias – and how much does he know? All of it, probably, once he decided to expend the effort. Tim hadn’t liked the way he’d been looking at him while they spoke – he goes home, no longer able to deal with the day. Elias can fire him if he feels like, although Tim very much doubts that is going to happen. If it were, he’d have been fired a long time ago; it’s not as if he even pretends to work anymore. Besides, he has a feeling that he’ll be out of the equation soon enough, if what Martin says about this Unknowing is true, and that suits him just fine. 

He pours himself a drink – not whiskey. He hasn’t had so much as a sip of whiskey since that night. The bottle clinks gently against the glass as he pours; his hands are shaking. He downs the drink quickly, wincing at the burn, and pours another. This one he takes to the sofa, where he sinks down and flicks on the telly, a last desperate attempt to distract his mind from where it wants to go. Useless. It won't be denied, not any longer. Telling Martin has dredged up things he’s long pretended were forgotten, and now, with one drink in his belly and another in his hand as a flimsy protection against memories there is no protection from, Tim prepares to relive the thing he couldn’t tell Martin – what really happened when Danny came back that night.

~****~

He hadn’t planned to fall asleep; hadn’t thought that he would be capable of it. The later that it had grown the more nervous he got, his stomach bubbling and churning as though filled with seltzer and not the heavy pasta dinner he and Danny had split.

He wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute he was pouring himself a glass of whiskey to try and calm his nerves, and the next he was sitting up in bed disoriented and still half asleep, frowning at the sounds of – was that a calliope? – drifting through his cracked door.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to peer through the darkness of his room. There was a faint light flickering underneath his door, and yes, that was calliope music he could hear. He got out of bed, his head already starting to pound, and followed the sound of the music to his living room.

Someone had started a fire, making the room uncomfortably hot, and there was a figure seated on his armchair, head tilted, listening to the music.

A cold shiver worked its way down Tim’s spine, chilling him in spite of the heat of the room, and in the moment between seeing a stranger and recognizing his brother he wished that he’d thought to put on a shirt, and maybe grab something to use as a weapon while he was at it. His pulse jumped in his throat, headache growing worse as adrenaline spiked through him. Then the man on his chair turned his head to look at him and it was only Danny after all. Tim breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. He didn’t know how he could have thought for a moment it was anyone else – even in the scant light provided by the fire, Danny’s hair seemed to glow.

“What are you doing?” Tim asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music. It was too loud, jarring; he wanted to turn it off, but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Both his stereo and television were turned off. “Danny. Shut that racket off and tell me what happened. Did you find it?”

“I like the music,” Danny said in a slow, dreamy voice, and for just an instant it sounded all wrong, almost doubled; seemed to come both from his brother and outside of him, and the face he’d turned to Tim doubled as well. For a split second it seemed there were two different faces with distinct features and coloring fighting for dominance. Tim blinked, and the face resolved itself back into Danny’s. _How much did I drink?_ He wondered. He was sure it hadn’t been that much, but his brain had the fuzzy quality that came with overindulgence; everything seemed just slightly off, his reactions a little too slow. 

“Well, I don’t. It’s-“ _creepy_ was what he meant to say, but then Danny stood, walked over to him and took his hand, and the shock of it rendered him speechless. They didn’t touch much as a rule; hadn’t for years, not since Danny grew six inches and put on about twenty pounds of muscle and stopped looking like Tim’s kid brother. There was the occasional shoulder nudge, and the ever popular handshake and half-hug, but Tim hadn’t actually held his brother’s hand since he was about five and needed help crossing the street.

Danny laced their fingers together and tugged him forward, towards the center of the room. Tim followed dumbly, eyes focused on where their hands were joined. It should have felt weird, holding hands with his brother like he might a boyfriend, but it didn’t.

“Dance with me,” Danny said, and Tim gave an awkward laugh and tried to extract his hand.

“I’ve already taught you all the steps I know,” he said. “Remember?”

It had been Danny’s first formal; he’d been sixteen and taking Alice Shelley. Prettiest girl in his class, because of course she was, and Danny had been in a panic because he didn’t know how to dance. Tim had nearly laughed himself silly to see his normally confident brother so nervous. _No one knows how to dance_ he’d said. _All you do is stand there and sway a bit_. But Danny hadn’t been satisfied.

_I really like her,_ he’d said, all wide, earnest eyes and soft, pleading voice. He hadn’t really grown into his face yet, still had another few years before he would be the type of good-looking that got him stopped on the street and offered modeling gigs, but even then Tim had no problem seeing why a girl like Alice would want him as her date to prom. He was lovely, was his brother, and Tim had sighed and given in, spent an hour or so letting Danny show him up – he always picked up on things faster than Tim, and dancing was no exception. He even let him pull him close and pretend he was Alice for a few minutes, to get the feel of slow dancing ( _I think she’s taller than you_ , Danny complained, laughing, and Tim stepped on his foot). Yeah, it’d been a little weird, that last bit, with Danny pressed up against him, hands splayed over his back (huge fucking hands, ridiculous), but Tim had done it because he loved his brother and he wanted him to have a good time.

This, though…Tim tried to tug his hand back again, but Danny refused to let go. “I want to dance,” he insisted, stubborn as always, and Tim as always gave in, let the force of his brother’s personality carry him into something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do.

The music Danny was listening to wasn’t good for dancing at all, but Danny didn’t seem to notice or care. He used their joined hands to pull Tim in, too close, swaying slowly to the music, completely off rhythm. He put his other hand low on Tim’s back, dragging him in even closer; so close that they were practically nose to nose, bodies pressed together from chest to groin. His shirt rasped lightly against Tim's nipples, and he felt them grow hard and sensitive; little bolts of sensation that went straight to his dick. Tim squirmed, uncomfortably warm now, trying to put some space between their bodies.

“Little breathing room?” he asked, and Danny gave him a sly, knowing smile.

“That isn’t really what you want,” he said, and Tim abruptly went cold.

He let out a fake, hollow-sounding laugh and shook his head, trying again to get out of Danny’s grip. He managed to finally free his hand, but Danny just wrapped that arm around him too, trapping him.

He moved forward suddenly, forcing Tim backwards - it was either walk move with him or fall. He might have tried that, if only to get Danny to release him, but he had a sudden certainty that if he fell Danny would just fall on top of him, and that would be a very bad thing. Danny forced Tim backwards until he was pressed up against the wall, pinned their by his brother's weight. A leg slotted in between his, sudden sweet pressure against his half-hard dick (and he’d been trying not to notice because then he'd have to think about why), and Tim felt his stomach drop into his feet.

“This isn’t funny,” he snapped.

“It isn't supposed to be,” Danny said, still smiling that awful smile, and moved his leg, dragging it back and forth against Tim's dick in a slow grind. Tim's heart began to pound and jerked against Danny's hold, desperate, truly trying to get away from him for the first time. He bucked and twisted, but Danny was strong, too strong, and he couldn’t get away. And all the while he moved his leg, matching he rhythm of Tim’s bucking body, until Tim was no longer sure if he was really trying to get away or simply rutting against the firm muscle of his brother’s thigh. 

“Danny, stop. Please.” He said, forcing his hips to stop moving (although they kept hitching, didn't they, little movements that he couldn't stop, couldn't control). Danny didn’t stop, just kept rubbing up against him, kept smiling as Tim fought and failed to keep himself from responding, tightening his legs around his thigh and pressing back. “Stop,” He said again, pleading. “This isn’t –“ Danny rocked up harder and he cut himself off with a moan. His body was stupid, all it understood was that there was a delicious friction between his legs and that it felt amazing; it couldn’t possibly understand how wrong it really was. But _he_ could. “I don’t-“

“I’ve seen you look at me,” Danny said. “Always, always looking. I’ve seen the way you stare at my photos when you think no one is paying attention.”

“That’s not-I have them because you-you’re my little brother and I’m proud of you. That’s-“

“And was it pride that had you hard against my hip when I was sixteen? Did you think I didn’t notice?” Whatever was wrong with Danny’s voice earlier was happening again; it reverberated in Tim’s head, echoing. The calliope music too; it swelled as Danny spoke, filling Tim’s head and making it hard to think. “If you’re so proud of me, why do feel like you have to hide all of those magazines with their photo spreads while I’m here? Why do you always watch me out of the corner of your eye when you think I’m not paying attention? I’ve seen you watch me when I work out, or when I leave the bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist and water pooling in the hollow of my throat, pooling and then sliding down, dripping. I’ve seen your eyes follow the path it takes; the way you can’t seem to catch your breath when they do. Is all of that down to being proud of me, brother?”

Danny leaned back slightly, his hands starting to play over Tim's skin. He traced absent patterns over his belly and chest as his leg continued to work against him, and Tim could have gotten away (he thought so then and he’s even more sure of it now, sitting in his living room with his head titled back, eyes glazed and drink slowly sliding from his hand to fall to the floor). Danny wasn't even holding him down anymore, not really. But he couldn't seem to work up the energy to try. He felt sluggish, drugged, head swimming both from the things that Danny was saying to him and the way that he was playing his body. His body sure didn’t want to move. It was just fine with everything that was happening; was in fact straining to help see this encounter through to its logical conclusion. Tim could feel a part of himself struggling, could feel it trying desperately to will his limbs out of their pleasure drugged stupor and _fight this_ , but that part of him was far away, trapped on the other side of a strange, dreamy sort of lassitude. The music was everywhere, too loud. It was in his head, had lined his limbs with concrete, and when he finally moved the best he managed was to set his hands on Danny’s shoulders and twist the fabric there, and whether the intent was to push him away or pull him closer Tim would never be sure.

“I don’t want this,” Tim gritted out, forcing each word past his numbed lips. He raised his voice, trying to be heard over the music. “I never did. Never.”

“You never would have taken it,” Danny corrected. He leaned in and nuzzled at the side of Tim’s face; Tim sobbed and turned into it helplessly, his traitor body opening to the caress. “But you’ll let me, won’t you?” _No_ , he thought, but it was weak, as weak as the rest of him. In all of their lives he’d never been able to deny Danny anything, not when he really wanted it, and now was no different. Tim gave up, gave in. He stopped fighting and let his body do what it wanted, let it move and rut and drive him mad with how good it felt. How _right_.

_I didn’t know,_ he thought as he and Danny rocked together to the disjointed melody that sang through his house and his head, _I didn’t, I never_ – but that was no excuse, not really. Whether or not he had known – and some part of him had to have known, or he wouldn’t have been at such pains to keep Danny from seeing – he’d felt it, hadn’t he? Of course he had. Of course he’d wanted Danny just the way he’d said, knowing he shouldn’t but unable to stop. If Danny had been less beautiful, less everything that Tim wanted to be and loved too much to resent – but then he wouldn’t have been Danny.

He turned his mind to the music, only the music, and let it consume him. Let it coax his mind into the same haze his body had already fallen into, removing it from the equation so it wouldn’t shatter completely. His body thrust, jerked, came. First in his boxers, then in his brother’s mouth, and finally into the cushions of the sofa with Danny moving on top of him, breath coming in quick, light pants as he thrust into him again and again. Even after Tim came Danny continued to move, one of his hands sliding under Tim’s body to play with his spent dick. It hurt. Tim’s whole body ached, overly sensitive to the slightest touch – but he rocked into it anyway, opened his legs just that little bit more, lost to anything but the need to give Danny whatever he wanted. He could hear himself begging, saying _please_ and _yes_ and _anything, anything_ interspersed with repetitions of his brother’s name, and he knew that it would shame him later but at the moment those were the only words he could possibly say. The only words he _wanted_ to say.

It seemed to go on forever; Danny was insatiable, fucking him until pleasure and pain were one in the same, fucking until Tim was soaking the cushions beneath him in tears as well as come. Tim didn’t mind. It was just his body; it didn’t matter. What mattered was the music, the sound of Danny’s breath in his ear, his stifled moans as he thrust and thrust. Tim gave himself to it until there was nothing left, and then he floated there on the music and the painpleasure feeling until Danny finally, finally pulled out and finished himself off, painting Tim’s arse and the back of his thighs in warm come. After, he rolled off of Tim completely, settling next to the sofa, and began to pet Tim’s hair. It was sweet, soothing, and after the first few strokes Tim had to fight to keep his eyes open.

“You were so good, Tim,” Danny said. He continued to stroke Tim’s hair with one hand as he cupped his arse with the other, sliding it through the mess he'd made, gathering it on his fingers. “So good,” he said, and then slid a finger inside, pushing the come into him. It burned. Tim’s moan was more a sob, and Danny laughed and pressed in deeper. Tim whimpered and squirmed. His fingers spasmed weakly against the sofa cushion and he shook his head from side to side, but he made no attempt to get away. If anything he pressed back into that probing finger, too far gone to do anything else. His body would not get hard again, did not want the intrusion, but it no longer seemed to know how to do anything but give in. Eventually Danny pulled his finger – because that’s what it had to be, Tim told himself, there'd been nothing else to use, even if it hadn’t felt like a finger at all – back out. “Shh,” he said, cruel amusement lacing his voice. “Sleep, and when you wake come find me; you know where.”

He was still stroking Tim's hair. Tim did as commanded, finally letting his eyes close despite – or maybe because of – the music that continued to play.

He dreamt that they were back at the beginning, Danny once again pressing him up against the wall, this time with his wrists pinned above his head. But when Tim looked into his face he didn’t see Danny’s soft brown eyes, only a merciless black emptiness that wanted nothing more than to devour his pain and confusion, to savor it like a rare delicacy. The face itself was wrong, the features blurred like so much running wax; nothing of his brother to be seen. His body, too. It was growing, _stretching_ , and when the thing that was once his brother smiled its mouth was full of razor sharp teeth and Tim knew that all this had just been to sweeten him up, ripen him for those teeth to tear into him so that the monster could gorge itself on his flesh the way it had already feasted on his mind. Tim gasped and stared up into that awful face and writhed in a mix of revulsion and inexplicable lust, hips driving forward, legs tightening around the hard thigh between them, head tilting back for those teeth. Begging, please, please-

“-don’t, Danny, please don’t.” Tim rolled off of the sofa, hitting the floor with a bone jarring thud and yanking himself from the nightmare. He panted on the floor a moment, grateful to be alive, and then sat up, looking around with bleary eyes, having only the vaguest idea of where he was. After a moment the memory returned and he scrambled up, wincing as his back twinged.

“D-Danny?’ he called, voice hoarse and throat raw. “Danny, where are you?”

His brother didn’t answer. Would never answer again, although at the time Tim hadn’t known it; had only known the relief of not having to face him after what had happened. He felt sick with shame; stomach churning. He stumbled into the bathroom and fell gracelessly to his knees, whacking his elbow on the sink as he did – he didn’t feel it and would only know it had happened days later, when he saw the bruise – and was violently ill, ejecting what felt like half his stomach lining as well as a vat full of acid into the bowl. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool porcelain, pretending that he couldn’t feel the tears coursing slowly down his face. It was some time before he found the strength to get up.

~****~

Tim opens his eyes, unsurprised to find them wet and blurry. He hasn’t consciously thought about what happened that night since. He’d told himself the same story that he’d told Martin and had made it as true as he could, although he’d never quite managed to convince himself of it. The horror of Danny’s death had sapped it of a lot of its hold over him, however; had made it seem less important than finding what had hurt his little brother and hurting it back. He’s learned a lot more about what he’s fighting since then, and he’s entirely sure that his first instinct was correct – the thing in his house that horrible night hadn’t been his brother. The last time he saw Danny – the real Danny – was hours earlier, when he'd smiled that confident smile of his and assured Tim that he'd be back before he knew it. Everything that happened after was simply part of the feast.

It doesn’t matter, though. Tim thinks about the statement he’d given Martin – the way he’d talked about Danny, unable to help himself. Thinks too about the magazines he never did around to throwing out, and the places his mind sometimes goes even now, when he isn’t careful. Thinks about the dreams he still has about that night, and how they aren’t always nightmares.

He’s guilty either way.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know.


End file.
